


who will bring me flowers when it's over?

by phae



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Clint Needs a Hug, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4885258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The flowers are a bit…much, aren’t they?” Clint asks, rubbing at the back of his neck and cradling the bouquet against his chest. The delicate glass vase clinks lightly against the buttons of his suit jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who will bring me flowers when it's over?

**Author's Note:**

> First Sentence Prompt from kinthinia.
> 
> Title is from _Flowers for a Ghost_ by Thriving Ivory.

“The flowers are a bit…much, aren’t they?” Clint asks, rubbing at the back of his neck and cradling the bouquet against his chest. The delicate glass vase clinks lightly against the buttons of his suit jacket.

 

“Lady at the shop, she suggested the vase,” Clint starts to explain nervously. “You know, because these days people don’t usually just have ‘em lying around, which is kinda sad, I guess. 

 

“Me, I’d end up having to stick ‘em in a Big Gulp cup, ‘cause I am nothing if not a classy motherfucker, right?” Clint’s rambling trails off for a second as his mouth quirks up in a self-deprecating smile. “But yeah, so. Back on track. Flowers. For you. In a vase. Because obviously you don’t already have one.”

 

Clint shifts from foot to foot awkwardly. “And I know I look ridiculous in this suit, okay? No need to point it out. I don’t even know why I’m wearing it–-you get that I’m complete shit at this, right? I mean, I am at most things, unless weapons or blowing shit up is involved, so…”

 

Clint can’t bring himself to look up. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the flowers, fingers playing with a low-hanging leaf. “Anyway, these are for you. I hope you, uh, like them? I wasn’t sure what kind to get, but these didn’t look too overly floral. Not like, they don’t look like flowers because, duh, they clearly are, just that-–they don’t look like the kind you’d find printed on an old lady’s couch, you know?”

 

Clint bites his lip to keep from rolling off on another tangent. He takes a deep breath in and runs through an eight-count in his head as he exhales. It doesn’t help him feel any better, not really, just a little more settled, so he’s not about to break down in tears again like he did outside the flower shop.

 

With a concentrated effort, he bends down to place the vase of flowers on the smooth gray stone before righting himself, tugging restlessly at his cuffs now that he doesn’t have anything to occupy his hands with. “I just-–Happy Birthday, Phil.”

 

Nodding decisively, Clint turns away from the gravestone sharply and leaves the cemetery a good deal more quickly than he entered it.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint wakes up to Lucky licking his face. Groaning, he rolls away and gets out of bed, groggily shuffling after Lucky as he races down the loft steps and starts prancing by the door.

 

Clint rakes a hand down over his face to wipe away the doggy drool; not the greatest way to wake up, true, but it’s not like he can hear his alarm clock these days.

 

He turns the deadbolt and stands back as he opens the door, but Lucky doesn’t dash out into the hallway like usual, just plops down where he’s at, his tail thumping the floor. 

 

Confused, Clint peeks his head around the door, but no one’s waiting in the hall, there’s just–-

 

Clint blinks. Then rubs the grit out of his eyes. Then just closes his eyes and counts to ten. Opens them again.

 

Nope. Bouquet’s still sitting there.

 

Shoulders tensing, Clint edges around the door and carefully slides the vase of flowers–-the ones he left at Phil Coulson’s grave three days ago–-inside with his foot. There’s a folded piece of paper shoved down in the center of the blossoms.

 

Clint eyes it suspiciously and steps back, but Lucky leans down and nudges the damn thing closer to him. With a sigh, Clint bends over and extracts the note.

 

_Nice try, but my birthday’s not for a good three months._


End file.
